


so let's give it up for the new year

by f1topayrespects



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, New Year's Eve, it's consensual they just don't know it's each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22184014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f1topayrespects/pseuds/f1topayrespects
Summary: George starts the New Year off with a bang (literally).
Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	so let's give it up for the new year

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the new year's eve photo george posted on instagram in the black tux and mask.  
title from motion city soundtrack - resolution.
> 
> slightly belated, but happy new year all!

**_December 31st, 2019_**

George takes one last look at himself in the mirror, adjusting the slight crook to his bow tie before slipping into the final part of his outfit. He’s not exactly friends with the guy hosting the party, but he silently thanks them for the black tie/black mask dress code. It’s weird, this time last year he could have wandered around the streets of London without any one taking a second look. He’s not big headed enough to think of himself as a _celebrity_ per se, not yet anyway, but he relishes the anonymity the mask allows him. The soft silk fabric feels like butter under his fingers, the craftsmanship making it obvious it came from a high end sex shop rather than your run of the mill fancy dress emporium. It matches the suit well, simple yet elegant. 

The intercom buzzes, a harsh static noise cutting through the silence. It makes him start a little, still getting used to the new flat and missing the familiarity of firm knocks on solid oak. He grabs his coat and keys before heading downstairs.

It’s a short journey to the party, and George almost wishes he could stay in the Uber a little while longer. The city lights flashing past fill him with a sense of peace, a rare moment of quiet reflection as they ghost across his pale skin. 2019 has been a hell of a year. The excitement of finally, _finally_, getting to race in Formula 1 - a boyhood dream of his ever since he first started to walk on two feet and decided four wheels were decidedly better. The performance of the car, though expected, had dampened his rookie season. He’d been told up front by Claire before he put pen to paper on the contract, but the gap was bigger than any of the team anticipated. Nevertheless the experience had been invaluable, and at least he usually outraced his teammate. The transition was always going to be difficult, but he remembers the sharp tang of podium champagne on his lips and he aches to taste it again.

The party is already full swing by the time he enters the third floor apartment. It’s cosier than his, lived in and warmly lit. He’s barely through the doorway when a drink is placed in his hand and a friendly arm claps him on the shoulder. “Glad you could make it mate!” He recognises the voice as that of an old school friend, someone he was once close with but the non stop travel had drawn them apart. He’s got a girl under his other arm, and while it’s nice to catch up and talk about the good old days with the lads, he can feel her starting to stare. He’s not sure why but it makes his skin prickle slightly under the mask, a thin sheen of sweat starting to dampen his forehead. He thinks she’s about to say something, about to utter his name out loud in the too crowded room, and though the music is blaring he can’t have her break that precious anonymity. 

He makes his excuses and flees to the safety of the balcony. It’s quieter out here, music dulled through the glass of the windows. Most of the guests are inside, the December chill keeping them at bay at least until the fireworks start, his only company the odd smoker and a couple making out so heavily in the corner that George thinks they might actually be conjoined. He watches them enviously for a bit while he sips his beer. If the crazy life of being an F1 driver had made it hard to keep in touch with friends, then it had made it practically impossible for dating. He knows some of the other drivers manage it, particularly the older ones, yet he can’t blame his previous girlfriends for not being able to handle it. He wouldn’t want to put someone through that anyway. Still, the loneliness threatens to overwhelm him on night’s like tonight.

There is one person George thinks he could make it work with, if given the chance. The thing is, he can’t remember how it happened, if it was gradual, admiration slowly burning into a fierce inferno, or if it was love at first sight. He just knows he can’t think back to a time when he didn’t love Alexander Albon. Alex, with his long limbs and self-deprecating humour, his oldest friend and his first real crush. He would understand the commitments, the travelling. They go everywhere together already - races and holidays - it would be so easy to add kissing into the mix. And dates. And cuddling. And sex, lots of sex, though maybe not before races or anytime they have to sit in a cramped racing car for hours on end.

He sighs and leans back against the railing, the cold metal pressing hard against his back. He supposes he should go back inside, join in the festivities and enjoy himself for one last time before he has to cut back on the food and drink in preparation for the upcoming season. His head already feels a little buzzed, his body unaccustomed to the alcohol. He reaches up to adjust his mask, an idea starting to form in his tipsy mind. He’ll need a least two more drinks to muster up the nerve to do it, but tonight no one knows he’s George Russell, F1 driver. Tonight he’s just a London lad at a mates house to see in the New Year and he’s gonna start the year off with a bang of his own - pun intended.

\---

The next few hours fly by, and before he knows it they’re all outside again, ready to start the countdown. He remembers the plan and looks around bashfully. A man in a black tux, a similar style to his own, catches his eye and smiles. He’s by himself, unlike the majority of guests already coupled up with their significant others, and as the crowd shouts _5, 4, 3, 2, 1_, he moves in and closes the distance between them. It’s corny, the scene lifted straight from a cheesy rom com movie that Lando makes him watch on off days. The kiss is soft and hesitant, out of place for a spur of the moment snog, but it’s sweet and the guy tastes like mint from his mojito. He smells good too, familiar in a way that George can’t quite place. He slips his hands into the man’s hair, tugging at the short strands, and his mouth drifts down to lick hungrily at the exposed line of skin at his collar. His actions seem to get the intended message across, his lips brought back into a bruising kiss nothing like the first, all lust and tongue and gasps of breath snatched in the brief seconds they aren’t sealed together. 

“Wanna go somewhere more private?” the guys whispers, nipping gently at his earlobe. “I noticed a spare bedroom upstairs. I doubt any one will notice if we leave now.” George doesn’t answer, unsure if he could trust his voice to not give away his desperation, so wrecked from just making out. He nods his head so vigorously the mask jostles. 

The man is right. The spare bedroom is far enough away from the party to be conspicuous and the door locks from the inside with a satisfying click. Within seconds, he finds himself being stripped of his suit. The expensive fabrics hit the floor carelessly, and George should really wince at that but he’s too distracted by hands and tongue, hot and wet against his body. The man reaches up to remove his mask, the only item of clothing he still has on. George pulls back hastily. “Leave it on,” he almost growls, before pushing the naked figure down onto the bed.

He rifles through his discarded clothes, gets the condom and sachet of lube he keeps stashed in his wallet, and as a second thought the bow tie. The lad catches on quick, eagerly offering his hands, and George uses the black stripe of fabric to tie them behind him, flipping the boy onto his knees in the process. “I didn’t strike you as the kinky type. You can use mine to gag me, if you want.” And god, George does want, his cock already leaking with increasing urgency. “I’ll let you know if it’s too much, my safe signal is the peace sign.”

It’s fast and it’s rough, and altogether over too soon. George isn’t usually a selfish lover, but with the mask as protection he allows himself this luxury. The guy doesn’t seem to mind, rubbing himself off on the mattress below him, coming untouched with his hands still firmly tied at the small of his back. George pulls out slowly, admires the blush he’s left on the tanned skin. He loosens the bindings around fragile wrists and unknots the makeshift gag. Shame washes over him briefly as the arousal begins to fades, and he places gentle kisses into the indents left behind, apologies whispered against red ligature marks.

“S’ok,” the man croaks, voice raspy with the beginnings of sleep. “Was good.”

George tosses the condom into the waste paper basket in the corner of the room, and dresses clumsily in the glow of the moonlight. He checks his phone, a handful of texts wishing him a happy new year, token wishes sent to a phone book of contacts. None of them personal. None of them from Alex. He opens the app and books an Uber home, tucking his softly snoring companion under the covers.

\---

George wakes the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. He turns on the radio and sets up the coffee maker, a small house warming gift from his mum and dad. The sweet aroma of coffee beans fills the kitchen as he thumbs through his phone, he’s sending off a few _’thanks mate, same to you! let’s make it a good un’_ responses to the texts he received last night when his phone vibrates in his hand. 

_Hey mate, Adam here. You was at my party last night right? Alex has just left, but told me to give the handsome man he snuck off with his digits. Jack says he’s sure he saw yous necking at midnight, did you get a new phone and not give him your number or somethin?_

He drops the mug he was holding onto the stone floor beneath his feet. He’s faintly aware of it shattering, but his pulse is racing like it’s in the Grand National and he staggers over to the sofa, blood rushing from his head at an alarming pace. He feels nauseous and weak, clammy palms rubbing over his face.

In hindsight, it was glaringly obvious. Alarm bells should have started to ring when he first smelt the man’s cologne, and the noise should have reached a deafening cacophony at the blatant significance the peace sign held. George could blame the alcohol, on decisions driven by arousal, the thrill of a one night stand after an embarrassingly long dry spell. But he remembers moaning Alex’s name as his came, the responding murmur of affirmation from the body underneath him. Subconsciously, he thinks he knew all along.

The dial tone barely sounds before it’s picked up on the second ring.  
_“Hey Alex, it’s George. We need to talk.”_


End file.
